


No Amount of Guilt (can change the past)

by kiminsocks



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, Fix-It, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Secret Identity, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-14 23:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8033221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiminsocks/pseuds/kiminsocks
Summary: Tony's in town for an Accords conference. Steve is in town to make sure nothing happens at that conference.They meet in a bar, and it's a second chance for first impressions.





	No Amount of Guilt (can change the past)

**Author's Note:**

> Don't want to spoil the story, so see the end notes about possible non-con/dub-con if this is something that may trigger you.

The pub is dim and dirty, dark wood countertops sticky with all the beers spilled on it over the years, the scent of sour alcohol and stale air almost cloying. It doesn’t bother Steve. It’s almost a balm to his restlessness, a glimpse back in time to when he and the Commandos would find some dingy pub to call theirs for a few nights, drinking and having as much of a good time as a man serving in wartime could have. The damp air reminds him of camaraderie, and friendship, and a little bit of grief tugs at his heart, for then and for now.

Steve shakes himself out of his melancholy when he hears an argument at the other end of the bar. Leaning forward in his seat he watches as the bartender speaks sternly to a man in German, gesturing angrily at the cigar hanging out of his mouth. The man snorts, says a few heated words back that Steve probably knows but doesn’t bother translating in his head, then removes his cigar, blows the smoke out almost violently, slams back the rest of his drink, and stalks out of the bar. Steve assumes his tab is already paid because the bartender doesn't chase after him, just shakes his head sullenly and mutters under his breath.

Dark and dingy it may be, but apparently it’s a non-smoking pub. Steve smiles slightly. Sometimes the future isn’t all bad.

A few moments after the man with the cigar leaves, the door opens again. Steve lifts his gaze, squinting slightly against the bright streetlights out front, and sees a figure enter through the lingering cloud of cigar smoke. It’s a moment before he realizes it’s Tony, hat pulled low over his eyes, shoulders hunched, but Steve would recognize that strut anywhere.

He has a moment of panic, stomach flipping uncomfortably, before he remembers the Photostatic Veil he borrowed from Natasha. A quick glance in the mirror behind the bar verifies his disguise is still in place. Shaggy brown hair in need of a cut, dark eyes, sharp nose, thinner jaw than his own. He’s nearly the opposite of his natural looks, still handsome but much less distinct. His voice is a little higher. He’s dressed differently as well; Instead of his usual tight t-shirt and dark working pants, he’s got on a burgundy sweater over a button down, slacks, and oxfords. He’s supposed to be a banker. He feels like he looks the part.

Tony picks a spot on the opposite side of the bar, almost directly across from where Steve’s sitting. He orders a bourbon when the bartender asks what he’ll have, and Steve winces inwardly. It’s never a good day when Tony goes straight to the hard stuff.

Steve sips his beer in silence, absently watching two men playing darts in the far corner on a dart board that has seen better days. He’s only partially paying attention; seems like the guy with the leather jacket cheated last time they played, and they’re arguing only half-jokingly about how the blonde guy should get a handicap because of it. The rest of his attention is on Tony, who is rocking his tumbler from side to side, watching the amber liquid slosh gently back and forth with dull eyes.

He has a very brief internal argument, tells himself it’s a bad idea and then resolutely ignores himself, before Steve motions the bartender over.

“Another?” the guy asks, accent thick in his deep voice. Steve nods, pushing his beer bottle across the bar, opens his mouth to speak before he changes his mind.

“Also, I’d like to buy him another of whatever he’s having.” He gestures across to Tony, who is still staring deep into his drink. The bartender merely nods and opens him a new beer, and Steve’s grateful for the discretion.

A few minutes later and the bartender slides a new drink over to Tony, says something and motions to Steve. Tony looks up as the bartender leaves, eyes finding Steve across the bar. He raises his eyebrows, mouth turned up on one side in a puzzled smile, then raises the new drink in a little salute. Steve tips his beer bottle back at him.

Tony could never resist a good mystery, and Steve doesn’t have to wait long before he slides gracefully onto the barstool next to him.

“Thanks for the drink,” Tony says, and the sound of his voice so close makes something tighten in Steve’s chest. The last time he’d heard it had been in a missile bunker in Siberia, telling him he didn’t deserve the shield.

“Though, you know, I could have bought the whole bar if I’d been so inclined,” Tony continues, and god, the way the man can make him want to hug him and punch him at the same time really is something else. It takes everything in him not to snort and roll his eyes like Steve would have, before.

He smiles slightly instead. “It’s the thought that counts,” Steve replies, and he can see Tony’s little double-take at his American accent.

Tony grins. “A Yank! And I thought this was a local hangout. The Google lies,” he says with a smirk. “Where are you from, my delightful new friend?”

“Virginia,” Steve says. It’s not a lie. Not exactly. Steve lived in DC for a while, which is close enough to Virginia. Tony didn’t ask where he was born, after all.

“Mm. Virginia Is For Lovers,” Tony says, obviously quoting something, voice dropping into a low rumble. Steve shivers slightly.

He knows Tony’s history, knows about the “playboy” part of the genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist. Tony’s been with Pepper most of the time Steve’s known him, but he’s seen news stories and magazine articles detailing Tony’s sordid past as one of the country’s most eligible bachelors. He’s aware Tony doesn't discriminate based on gender, so he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is to realize Tony’s flirting with him.

In his defense, he’s never seen Tony Stark, playboy, in action. It takes him a moment to recover, flush fading gradually from his cheeks, and by then Tony has already started speaking again.

“What brings you to beautiful Switzerland?” Tony asks, that piercing attention back on the drink in his hands. He’s swirling it in circles now, liquid climbing up the sides of the glass but never spilling, fingers never stopping their constant movement.

“My job. I’m a banker,” Steve says, and it’s a lie and he hates it, but he mentally shrugs of the pang of guilt at lying to Tony again. Some things are necessary.

“Ah,” Tony says, and falls silent. It’s unusual enough for it to feel awkward, and Steve clears his throat after a moment.

“And you? What brings you to Switzerland?” he asks. Tony looks back up at him, and his dry smile doesn't hide the dark bruises underneath his eyes.

“Really? We’re going to play this game?” Steve just raises his eyebrows and Tony barks out a laugh. “Alright, fine. Hello, I’m Tony Stark, Iron Man. I’m sure you’ve heard about me, read about me, seen me on TV, whatever.”  Steve flushes. Of course he’d recognize Tony even if he was a civilian. Stupid.

“I’m sorry—“ Steve starts, but Tony cuts him off, hand slashing through the air.

“It’s fine, you didn’t want to be rude, I get it. Don’t worry about it. It’s just easier to skip all the bullshit sometimes, you know?” Tony says wryly. He gives a little laugh that Steve decides he hates and throws back the rest of his drink before signaling for another.

“So, you’re in town for the Accords conference,” Steve says. It’s not really a question. Tony nods anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s flat and empty and god, when did this happen to him? To them?

“What’s your name, anyway?” Tony asks when he’s got his hands around a full glass once more.

“Steve,” Steve tells him. Tony’s eyes widen slightly before he throws his head back and laughs loudly.

“Of course it is,” he says, still chuckling, and something clenches in Steve’s chest.

He’d tried on different names in front of the mirror, James and Mark and Gabe and Arnold, but nothing seemed to fit. Besides, Natasha’s always said that sometimes it’s easier to hide in plain sight, and Steve is a common name for men his age. It’s also better for him because he’s not too good at remembering to answer to other names, and it’s gotten him in trouble before.

“Sorry,” Steve says, smiling self-deprecatingly, and Tony just grins at him, even if his eyes are still full of something dark and painful.

“Not your fault, right? Blame your parents,” Tony says. Plays with his glass some more. “Enough of that, though. Tell me about yourself, Steve.” He looks up at Steve’s face, and Steve struggles to find something to say that isn’t a complete lie.

“Well, uh. I’m a banker,” Steve says haltingly, and Tony smiles, patient. Steve takes a deep breath, tries to think of something Tony might not connect to Steve Rogers. Which is actually more difficult than it seems, because Tony knows Steve Rogers almost better than he knows himself, now that he thinks about it. “I’ve only lived overseas for a few months now, so I’m still learning basic German. Visited before, though, toured Europe when I was younger.” He shrugs, hopes Tony will pick up the threads of the conversation.

“Where’ve you been?” Tony asks, and Steve tells him France, Germany, Italy, Switzerland, England. All the places World War II and the Howling Commandos took him. He stretches the truth a bit, tells him he backpacked after college for a year, hitchhiked and stayed in hostels and all the things kids do now before they settle down with a job and a wife and kids. Tony nods like he’s interested, and maybe he is. Maybe he wants to know Steve’s mostly-fabricated story. Or maybe he just needs a distraction from his own life, from the Accords and Pepper and his team split down the middle while he tries to clean up the mess left behind from the last six months.

Tony asks a few questions here and there, and he lets Steve ramble on about the Eiffel Tower (which he’s never actually seen), about Germany and some of the people he met in a pub there (Tony doesn't need to know he met them in 1944 and they most likely died in a bombing raid the following week). He’s got his chin in his hand, elbow resting on the bartop, and he’s smiling while Steve talks, and Steve’s never known the man to be so quiet, such a good listener, and then he wants to hit himself because he never actually gave Tony the chance to listen, did he.

Steve eventually runs out of things to talk about, doesn't want to lie any more than he already has, and the conversation peters out. Tony’s finished another glass while he’s been talking, and Steve can see he’s starting to get a little drunk. His eyelids are drooping slightly, like he’s tired, and Steve is about to call the bartender over for a glass of water when Tony speaks.

“Why are you here, Steve?” he asks, voice puzzled. He’s got a little furrow between his brows, question in his dark eyes. “Why are you in this shitty little pub, on a Tuesday night, by yourself?”

Steve opens his mouth but doesn’t have an answer. Tony continues, looking down at his hands now, fingers dancing over the rim of his glass. “You seem like a decent guy. You talk about your friends, you’ve traveled, you’re nice enough. You're handsome. Why are you hiding out here?”

He swallows, and says the only thing he can think of with those dark eyes in the forefront of his mind.

“I hurt someone.” There’s silence from where Tony’s sitting, and Steve clears his throat and continues. “My— my friend. I said some things I shouldn't have, and didn’t say some things I should have, and I hurt him.” Steve’s throat closes up suddenly and it fucking _hurts_ , having Tony right next to him, listening to him talk but not knowing that it’s _him_ Steve’s talking about, _him_ Steve hurt, not being able to fix anything because he can’t.

“Maybe you should apologize,” Tony suggests, and Steve laughs harshly, scrubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. If only it were that easy.

“It’s not that simple,” Steve says, when he can speak without his voice breaking.

Tony looks up from his hands, eyes burning with something Steve can’t read. Regret, or sorrow, or anger. Maybe a combination of the three.

“Sometimes it is.”

Steve breaks eye contact first, mumbles something about using the restroom. He makes his way to the back of the bar, stumbles into the stall and leans back against the door. His breath is coming in sharp pants and he needs to get a hold of himself. Nobody knows he’s Steve Rogers. He’s supposed to be keeping a low profile, staying under the radar in case something goes awry at this conference. He’s not supposed to be meeting up with Tony fucking Stark at a seedy pub, having heart to hearts and breaking down in front of the guy.

He gives himself two minutes, then splashes some cold water on his foreign face and makes his way back to his barstool. Tony smiles at him, intensity gone from his eyes, leaving behind a man who looks beaten down by the world but who refuses to give in, if only to spite everyone else.

“Okay, Tony Stark,” Steve says, voice light. “Tell me something I couldn’t find out by searching your name on the internet.” 

Tony’s laugh is easy, amused, and Steve grins. “Well,” Tony says, draws out the word, tapping his fingers in a rhythmic pattern on the dark wood counter. “I’m a terrible golfer. Deplorable,” he says, shaking his head sadly, eyes dancing.

Steve laughs out loud, entertained. “Oh really?” he says, curious.

Tony nods solemnly. “I shot a 162 at the last charity golf tournament I played at.” Steve nearly chokes on his beer, coughs as he sets it down on the bar. He doesn’t know golf that well, but he knows enough to know that’s awful. Tony grins while he slaps him on the back genially.

“No really,” he says. “I paid them to not report my score. Told them to say I was there for the alcohol. I think the newspapers said I was a caddy.” He shrugs, hand dropping off Steve’s back, and Steve misses the warmth immediately.

“Wow. That’s— Wow,” Steve gets out, still laughing a little.

“Definitely not on Google,” Tony finishes for him, eyes creased in mirth. Steve’s missed this, Tony’s smile and his laugh, and he realizes they haven't just talked like this in probably over a year. Long before the Accords came around. Probably even before Ultron.

“Can I ask you a serious question?” Steve blurts out before he can stop himself. Tony’s eyes shutter a little bit and Steve wants to kick himself, but it’s too late now.

“Shoot,” Tony says, trying to keep his voice light, but Steve can hear the underlying tension that wasn't there a minute ago.

Steve takes a breath and lets it out in a gust. “You don’t have to answer, I’m just curious.” Tony doesn't say anything, just gestures for Steve to get a move on. He takes another deep breath. “Why did you sign? The Accords, I mean.”

Tony’s face doesn't exactly shut down, but it goes blank, almost. He looks away, around the pub, at the dart board that’s been sitting empty for some time now, into the mirrors at the end of the bar. His gaze stays there, staring at himself, and Steve wonders what he sees.

“It’s complicated,” Tony finally says.

“Explain it to me.” Steve thinks for a moment that maybe he’s pushed too far, he’s a stranger as far as Tony knows, and this is deeply personal, so personal that Steve and Tony couldn't talk about it without it deteriorating into a fight. But maybe they were too close. Maybe Tony will tell some stranger, someone willing to listen to his side without judgement. Maybe Tony will finally explain in a way Steve can understand.

Tony signals for another drink and Steve wants to stop him, wants to tell him he’s had enough, but it’s not his place. It never has been and it certainly isn’t now.

“Okay, we’re going to try something,” Tony starts. He takes a large sip from his glass and puts it down before turning on the barstool to look directly at Steve. Again, the intensity of his gaze is something Steve isn’t quite prepared for, but he keeps his mouth shut and nods, trying to keep his face open.

“Imagine you’re me. Iron Man, Tony Stark, co-leader of the Avengers, blah blah blah. There’s the aliens in Manhattan, and the thing in DC, and Sokovia, and Nigeria. Regardless of whose fault it is,” he says emphatically, waves his arms through the air as if he could push the blame away completely. “Those tragedies, they cost something. Money, sure. Buildings were torn down. Towns destroyed. Lots of money, mostly straight from my pocket. But more than money, more than that. People _died_ ,” Tony says passionately, eyes bright, trying to get Steve from Virginia to understand civilian casualties. “People died,” he says again, “and nobody was being held accountable. Imagine a war where there was no bad guy. Everyone just fought and people died and then everyone else woke up the next day and acted like nothing happened. No one was punished. No one was held accountable for those deaths. That was us, that was the Avengers.”

Steve wants to say something, wants to say that’s not true, that every death meant something to him, that they were all remembered, are _still_ remembered when he can’t sleep at night. But he bites his tongue, bites back all the words Steve Rogers wants to say, and Tony continues.

“And the world didn’t like it. And when the US government came knocking on my goddamn door, turns out they didn’t like it either, especially when we were based out of their country, on their own land.” Tony sighs explosively. “They wanted an army. An Avengers army to do their bidding. They wanted us to fight for them, they said, and they’d protect us and clean up after us, all the money and deaths and politics, and the rest of the world would have to go through them to get to us. And I said no.” Tony takes a deep swallow of his bourbon. “I said hell no, and I had my company lawyers on the phone the very next day and the only thing we could do to protect us from being used by our own government was to go to the UN. And the Accords happened.” He shrugs, turns away from Steve now.

“The rest is history. It was the Accords or retire. Or become a fugitive, I guess,” Tony finishes ruefully. 

Steve is shocked into silence. He’s never heard this before, had never known the US government had been basically threatening them. He remembers Tony saying he was trying to protect them, trying to “stave off something worse”. But this? This is… He doesn’t know what this is. All he knows is he wants to strangle Tony. Wants to shake him, shout at him, ask why he didn’t come to Steve, why he didn’t tell him, they were supposed to be teammates. Friends.

And again, Steve bites his tongue. Friends didn’t keep secrets like this. Friends didn’t keep secrets from each other, like the truth about their parents’ deaths.

Steve chugs the rest of his beer. Signals for another. Tony does the same, and Steve can’t find it in him to tell him no. Tony’s had this weight on his shoulders for over a year now, probably longer, because Tony always thinks he has to do things alone. Always thinks his team, his friends won’t have his back when he needs them. Steve wants to ask why, how could he think that, and he remembers the files he was given on Tony Stark just after he came out of the ice, the ones that spelled out a lonely childhood and an emotionally abusive father. Tony Stark, who took over a multi-billion dollar company at 18, who had to take down his traitorous father-figure on his own after being kidnapped by international terrorists, who was forced to save himself by inventing a new element while suffering from heavy metal poisoning. He’d never had anyone to count on his entire life, and Steve had never really given him any reason to think he’d be the one to finally have his back.

And now he never would be able to be that for Tony. Not after everything he’s done, the lies he’d told to protect himself. Because who was he kidding, he wasn’t protecting Tony with that. He wasn't even protecting Bucky. He was nothing but a coward, afraid to face the truth, afraid of the consequences. He’d never even given Tony a chance, not until it was too late.

It’s a while before either of them speaks again. Tony fiddles with his drink. Steve checks his phone. He’s missed a text.

_Natasha: where are you?_

_Steve: I’m fine. I’ll be back in the morning. Don’t worry._

It’s not even half a minute before she replies. 

_Natasha: that’s not an answer_

He doesn't respond, just slips the smartphone back into his pocket, next to the little black phone that never rings.

Eventually the quiet must become too much for Tony.

He leans sideways on his stool, shoulder bumping gently into Steve’s. “Cheer up,” he says, slurring slightly. “From what I hear nobody’s locked up anymore.”

Tony must think he’s a fan. Or a member of the whole Team Cap movement. Why else would the Accords bother him so much, some boring banker in Switzerland.

“Who was your favorite?” Tony asks him curiously.

Steve thinks about it, but there’s only ever been one answer since Iron Man flew that nuke into outer space.

“You,” he says, and he can feel the heat in his cheeks but stubbornly refuses to look down. Tony looks surprised but quickly recovers, smirking.

“Really? Had you pegged for a Cap fan,” he responds. Steve shrugs.

“Nah,” he says, and leaves it at that. After a minute Tony throws back the rest of his drink and stands, fishing a bill out of his wallet that’s more than enough to cover the both of their tabs and slapping it onto the counter.

“Wanna get out of here, Steve from Virginia?” he asks, and he holds his hand out like he’s asking Steve for a dance.

Steve takes it.

***

They walk back to Tony’s hotel together. Tony had let go of his hand once they’d gotten out onto the streets, but they stayed close together in the chilly weather and kept brushing arms as they walked. Steve follows him across the lobby and into the elevator, which whisks them up to the penthouse in silence. Tony stumbles out into the foyer and Steve has to reach out and steady him, holding onto his shoulders.

Tony smiles, eyes soft, and leans in to press his lips to Steve’s.

Steve’s frozen for a few seconds, staring at Tony’s closed eyelids, before he has the presence of mind to gently push him away.

“Tony, maybe you should sleep it off,” he says kindly, squeezing the other man’s shoulders slightly.

Tony rolls his eyes but takes the rejection in stride, turning and stumbling into the bedroom. He flops onto the bed without removing any clothes and turns his head to the side, eyeing Steve as he follows him into the room.

“‘m not that drunk,” Tony slurs, nudging at Steve with a foot when Steve sits on the edge of the bed.

Steve snorts. “I think you actually are,” he responds, amused despite himself, and Tony kicks him again. Steve catches his foot in his hands and unties his shoelaces before removing the shoe and sock completely. He moves on to the other foot, glancing up at Tony as he does. He’s still watching from under heavily-lidded eyes and Steve feels a flare of heat deep in his belly.

“You remind me of someone,” Tony mumbles, and Steve pauses as he sets the second shoe on the floor next to the first.

“Oh yeah?” Steve says, keeping his voice light. Tony nods once, head flopping heavily down then back into the pillow.

“I like you,” Tony says simply. Steve’s heart flutters nervously. He’s full of so many conflicting feelings, guilt and desire and shame. Mostly he just want to make sure Tony’s alright, though, so he fills a glass of water and brings it back to him, sits him up and has him drink the whole thing before laying him back down. He goes back to the bathroom to refill the glass and set it on the table next to Tony’s head. Tony blinks at him, eyes hazy, barely tracking. Steve brushes a stray lock of hair out of Tony’s face and Tony smiles at him, grabs his hand and twines their fingers briefly before letting Steve slide out of his hold, eyes slipping shut.

Steve crosses the room to the armchair in the corner and settles in for the night. 

***

It’s around 3:30 in the morning when Steve gets up to stretch his legs and use the bathroom. His face is itching from wearing the Photostatic Veil for such an extended period of time, so he splashes some cool water on it. He can’t risk removing the disguise, not while he’s so close to Tony, but the water gives him a little bit of relief, at least.

He’s patting his face dry with the hotel’s soft cotton towel when he looks up into the mirror and sees Tony standing in the doorway. The light must have woken him up. He’s leaning one shoulder against the frame, arm wrapped low around his stomach, other hand tapping absently on the center of his chest. Steve recognizes the nervous tic as something Tony does when he feels particularly vulnerable, a remnant of the days when he still had the arc reactor.

Tony’s still in his clothes from the bar, watching Steve silently, and his face is contemplative, assessing, calculating. He’s sober now, one hundred percent aware and all of his considerable attention is focused directly on Steve. It’s slightly unnerving. Steve turns toward him.

“You do realize you missed a pretty stellar opportunity last night, don’t you?” Tony asks, voice quiet. The confusion must show clearly on Steve’s face because Tony continues in the same flat tone. “Drunk billionaire practically begging for it, you could have done whatever you wanted to me. Kidnapped me, fucked me, robbed me blind.”

Steve takes a step back as if Tony had actually hit him. His gut turns to stone, heavy and painful. “Tony,” he says, appalled.

Tony’s eyes flicker and his face softens. He takes a step toward Steve, and another, reaching out until he can grip Steve’s arm in his callused hand.

“Sorry, Steve. Sorry. I’m out of practice with this. Waking up with strangers in my room,” he elaborates. His eyes slide away self-consciously. “I’ve got some trust issues, to put it lightly.” He squeezes Steve’s bicep before he lets go and steps back, some of his old confidence returning.

“Thanks for walking me back and not taking advantage of me, is what I meant to say,” Tony says, smiling slightly. “You’re my hero,” he adds, a little wry.

“You’re welcome,” Steve says with all the sincerity he can convey. It’s killing him, seeing this side of Tony, parts of him he’s never seen before, not because he didn't have the opportunity but because he never took the time to look. Tony’s always been so strong, so untouchable in his mind, that he never stopped to think that he’s human, that he hurts and has been hurt, that he might need help, even when he acts like he doesn’t.

He wants to be that friend, that someone, that Tony can turn to. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get that chance again.

“You don’t have to stay anymore, I’m not going to drown in my own puke or anything,” Tony says, offhand like it isn’t a big deal that maybe he could have, like he’s been in the position before where someone did need to be there to prevent him from dying in his drunken sleep. Another awful stab of feeling, and Steve can’t really take it anymore.

“I’d like to. Stay.” Tony looks up, eyes wide. Opens his mouth and closes it again. “If that’s alright,” Steve says, asking permission.

Tony doesn't answer. Just closes the distance between them and grasps the sides of his face with both hands, pulling him down into a kiss.

It’s different from last night, because Tony’s not drunk and Steve’s a least a little more prepared this time. His arms snake around Tony’s waist, hands crawling up Tony’s back to pull him more closely into his body, and his mouth opens under Tony’s, a heated groan spilling out.

He backs Tony into the bedroom, never stopping the kiss, hardly stopping to breathe. The room is still dark and they stumble until they reach the bed, losing clothes along the way. Steve shucks his shoes, hopping awkwardly for a moment to peel his socks and pants off before returning to the heat of Tony’s mouth. Tony peels both the sweater and button-down over his head in one move, lets his hands roam unchecked over Steve’s chest and stomach. Steve gets to work on Tony’s belt, helping him step out of his pants before he reaches for the edge of Tony’s t-shirt.

“Shirt stays on,” Tony whispers, and it’s another little punch to the gut, another little facet of how damaged Tony is, how much of it Steve overlooked, how much of it Steve _caused_. Steve’s seen him shirtless before, in workouts sometimes, after battles, in the SHIELD locker rooms. Tony had trusted his team, never flaunted his chest full of scars but never hidden it, either. He wonders if Tony would trust him if he knew he was Steve Rogers, his old teammate, the man who lied to him and betrayed his trust. Somehow he doubts it.

Steve nods, too choked up to do anything else, and reaches for Tony’s face instead, cupping it gently in his big hands, kissing his lips softly. He doesn’t know how to apologize, knows he can’t right now and doesn’t know if he will ever even get the chance to do so, so he puts everything he’s feeling into the kiss, thumbs stroking across Tony’s cheekbones, fingers tangling in his dark hair. He slides his hand to cup the back of Tony’s head, tongue exploring Tony’s mouth, giving everything he has and taking whatever Tony’s offering in return.

“Hey, hey, I got you,” Tony says breathlessly when they break away from each other. Steve’s panting harshly, and he realizes he’s shaking, tremors racing up and down his body. He closes his eyes and tries to get a hold of himself and Tony chafes up and down his arms. “You’re good, you’re fine, I’ve got you,” he says again, voice soft, and Steve exhales a shaky breath, opening his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and maybe it sounds like he’s apologizing for overreacting but Steve doesn’t think he quite pulls it off. His voice is hardly recognizable, shaking and miserable, and Tony just gives him this sad, sad smile, shakes his head and pecks him tenderly on the lips.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, and pulls Steve down to the bed with him.

It’s bittersweet, being with Tony, and part of Steve wishes he didn’t do it, wishes he’d walked away before when Tony had given him an out. But another part of him, the bigger part, wouldn’t trade this for anything. Tony’s hands, more tender and gentle than Steve had ever imagined, lighting him up in ways he’d never thought possible, dancing across his skin and leaving fiery trails in their wake. Tony’s lips, so soft next to his scratchy beard, kissing that is more of a give and take, a question and a promise, and Steve has never been so close to coming from just a kiss. It’s so intimate, every second of it, that Steve would call it making love if he was telling the truth, but how can you make love to someone when you’re lying to them, when they don’t even know who you really are?

He hears Tony say his name on moans and whimpers and breathless sighs and he wonders if Tony is thinking of Steve from Virginia, or if he’s thinking of another Steve. He’s heartsick that he’s never realized the depths of his feelings for this man before now, but he’s so, so grateful they’ve never done this before as well, because surely Tony would remember the way his body feels and responds to his touches, the way his mouth tastes, the way he says Tony’s name when he comes.

He wraps himself around Tony’s body afterwards, protecting him from the world, from everything he failed to protect him from before and will fail to protect him from in the future. If this is the only night he has, he is not selfless enough to let it end now. 

Tony curls into him and Steve’s heart aches, eyes burning with the terrible emotions churning inside him, regret and guilt and love. He kisses Tony’s forehead, lets his lips linger perhaps longer than is necessary, lets himself indulge, just for tonight. Tony sighs and relaxes into sleep, and Steve lies awake and holds him for a long time after.

***

There’s no fuss or fanfare the following morning. Tony is up and getting ready for the conference by 7, dressed impeccably in a three piece suit and sharp red tie. Steve wakes up as he’s slipping his dress shoes on, and Tony tells him there’s coffee in the kitchen and he can let himself out.

He smiles as he says it, softening the blow, and Steve smiles back, playing the part. Tony walks over to give him a last kiss, “For luck,” he says, and then he’s gone.

Steve lets himself out.

He and Natasha are ready for anything, staked out just a block away, but nothing happens at the conference. Everything goes smoothly, no terrorist attacks, no bombings. The UN agrees to take the amendments to the Accords into consideration, the conference is over, and Tony Stark leaves straight from meeting, climbing up into his private Stark Industries jet and flying off back to New York.

Later that evening Steve makes his way back to the shitty little pub, and if he can’t keep his eyes off of Tony Stark during the replays on the barroom television, no one is there to notice.

Steve orders a bourbon and the bartender doesn't charge him for it.

They’re in the airport the next morning, waiting for their flight to Wakanda to begin boarding, when his pocket vibrates. It takes him a moment to place it, because his cell phone is sitting on the chair next to his leg, screen dark.

He pulls out the little black flip phone, sees a text message.

_Tony Stark: I forgive you._

A second later, another message comes through.

_Tony Stark: Come home._

**Author's Note:**

> Steve, under a secret identity, has sex with Tony. Tony may or may not realize who Steve is.


End file.
